


angel's holiday

by MacPye



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPye/pseuds/MacPye
Summary: Aziraphale is in a bad mood. Crowley hopes some tempting and miracling outside London will help him cheer up.





	angel's holiday

It’s fifteen years before the Apocalypse, although, at the time, of course, they didn’t know that. And while they’re making their way through the park at a leisurely pace, Crowley could tell Aziraphale was in a foul mood.

It wasn’t that the angel showed it in his face so much - even if he smiled less than usual in Crowley’s company - but any cyclist passing them in the pedestrian only zones found their tires miraculously punctured.

Aziraphale always does some minor righteous smiting when he’s feeling off.

They’d been discussing what activities could be shared, as per the Arrangement, and Crowley noticed the angel was barely paying attention. He decided to stop waffling, and get to the point.

“So I need to go to Southern Malawi next week, to tempt some white missionaries to do less proselytising, and you said you needed to go to Tete in Mozambique,” he tried, and could tell Aziraphale was once again marking his words, because he pulled a face at the mention of missionaries.

To put it delicately, Aziraphale didn’t _appreciate_ the type of missionary who demanded conversion in exchange for aid. He didn’t like interacting with them on orders from his Head Office, and he certainly didn’t mind doing Crowley’s chores when it meant crossing these types of people. In a nutshell, causing some mayhem there was exactly the kind of thing that could cheer the angel up, in Crowley’s opinion.

“So,” Crowley continued, carefully watching Aziraphale, “I was thinking, perhaps you could go and do both those things?”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale conceded, lips pursed. “That sounds like a plan.”

Crowley didn’t go so far as to see him off the next week (although he was sorely tempted), but they agreed he’d pick the angel up from the airport in three weeks’ time, when he returned.

*****

Crowley could admit to being a little antsy, waiting at the Arrivals gate. Aziraphale had flown from Maputo to Lisbon, and both flights were miraculously on schedule. Crowley didn’t blame him for that, long haul flights could be a big test.

Crowley was antsy, because he felt awkward in the company of families for loved ones, especially since people started coming through the gate with luggage and tans in tow. There were young adults returning from backpacking adventures, being greeted by banners, some business people on their phones, barely paying attention to the traffic around them, some tourists in recreational clothing, wreathed in smiles.

He doesn’t see Aziraphale, and becomes a little worried as the stream of people from the Lisbon flight started to dry up. He looked around himself, worried that he’d been waiting at the wrong time, when, behind him, he heard the familiar call, “Crowley!”

He whipped around, and his jaw dropped.

Aziraphale was looking radiant. He was more tanned than Crowley had ever seen him, which made his bright blond hair seem even more of a halo. He was wearing his regular trousers, but also a very pale peach shirt with an open neck, showing a hint of a silver necklace.

“Crowley!” the angel repeated, and Crowley became aware he had not been paying attention to what he had been saying, completely enraptured by the way he looked. Aziraphale had taken off rose gold framed sunglasses with brown glasses in them, and beamed up at him.

_Oh dear Satan in hell_ , Crowley thought, his mouth dry. “Hi,” he croaked, internally flaggelating himself for sounding that way. “You, er, look well? How did it go?”

Aziraphale looked rather bashfully pleased with himself. “Oh, you know,” he responded, “Tempted some missionaries to focus less on spreading the Word and more on actual aid, cheered on some people doing good in their own communities, you know how it is.”

Crowley’s eyes kept being drawn to the V of the angel’s collarless shirt, revealing a tantalising amount of bronzed chest, and that mysterious silver chain. It was obviously being weighted down by _something_.

“What’s on the chain?” he blurted out, abrubtly interrupting Aziraphale’s report.

The angel’s mouth snapped shut, and some red tinged his ears. “Oh, ah, you noticed,” he burbled.

_It’s kind of hard_ not _to_ , Crowley thought. “Yes,” he managed.

Aziraphale twiddled with his sunglasses. “It’s just a memento, really.”

“Of what?” Crowley prodded.

With a secretive smile, Aziraphale fished the chain out from under his shirt, and simply shows him.

It’s the toga pin he himself had worn in Rome, changed into a pendant. He can’t do anything more than blink at it, at a loss for words.

“I’ve actually had it on this chain for quite a while,” Aziraphale admits shyly. “We had oysters at Petronius’s, it - ah, _they_ were rather lovely.”

Crowley’s heart has swolen almost painfully large. “They rather were, weren’t they,” he mused.

The mood between them draws out. It’s almost unbearable. Until the angel clears his throat.

“Did you have plans for lunch?” he asked.

Crowley blinked a few times, glad of his dark glasses. “Er, how about that small place near your bookshop that does that great paella?”

“Oh, fabulous idea,” Aziraphale croons.

They fall into step on their way to the parking, and all seems back to their usual status quo.

But it’s only fifteen years way from the End of the World, even if they didn’t know it yet at the time, and things would soon change.


End file.
